


nothing like the sun

by heartsways



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, feelings everywhere, lady surgeons in love, the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:24:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9450167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsways/pseuds/heartsways
Summary: in which bernie has a late-night visitor and serena's middle name is "impatient"another tumblr repost.  let's face it: if you've read one of my stories you've pretty much read them all.





	

They do a careful dance around one another at work.  Everyone knows - the NHS is uncharacteristically fast when it comes to spreading gossip like a virus - and they've nothing to hide but still...  Serena believes in leading by example and she fears she hasn't been setting any good ones lately.  Ever the professional (ever the optimist in thinking that's going to last, Bernie told her bluntly), Serena's reminded them both of boundaries and distance and a lot of other things that delivered in an even, firm tone of certainty.

 

People talk, though.  Sometimes they even talk when Bernie and Serena can hear them.  

 

Serena's perfected an arched glare that sends most of them running a mile.

 

Bernie's more equivocal about things, surprisingly.  She tells Serena that she's too exhausted to carry the weight of everyone else's feelings as well as her own.  And, anyway, why should they worry about what anyone else thinks?  Most people are kind.  Most don't even really care at all.

 

But Serena can't forget about the ones that do.  It's why they're desperately careful around one another, engaging in an old-fashioned courtship ritual.  Theirs is a love affair of longing glances, of hands brushing inadvertently and smiles that speak of promise without words.  It's a torturous, chaste way to be, Bernie thinks.  But she restrains herself because it's what Serena wants - what she's asked for.  Bernie holds herself back, makes jokes and is as genial as she knows how.  She almost manages to convince herself that it's a workable system.

 

And it is.  For a while.

 

But there's a reason poets wax lyrical about eternal longing and Bernie curses them all under her breath for understanding how she feels.  Courtly Love isn't for her.  And neither is going long days waltzing around one another and even longer nights where they dance to the tune of all the other demands in their life.

 

When it comes to finding time that belongs just to them, days stretch into a week.  Bernie sees the agonized expression on Serena's face when she has to cancel yet another dinner.  Serena tries to be gracious when Bernie has the opportunity to spend time with her son.  They speak in vague, half-declarations about what they want and what they need but it's always in a strained sort of way.  Because a poem of seduction without a suitable end is just words: a jumble of intent and restraint all at the same time.

 

Bernie's never been very good at talking about feelings.  They were always too problematic, too big and expansive for her to ever find words that could truly encapsulate them.  She opted for silence instead.  It was easier that way.  

 

It's easier that way now, too, and sometimes Bernie's thankful for her punishing schedule because it means she doesn't have time to talk.  Doesn't have time to flounder and reach for words that seem meaningless and frivolous and empty in comparison to how she feels inside.  Perhaps the art of avoidance is her own poetry, whispered at the back of her head in a voice that taunts her cowardice.

 

Then she'll catch Serena looking at her across the ward, see the hunger in her eyes and Bernie wants to gather up all the yearning, all the great love expressed by people far more linguistically talented than she is, and lay it at Serena's feet in a stupid, romantic grand gesture.

 

Her cheeks burn at the thought, at the intensity of her feelings behind it.  And that's when she knows, her stomach dipping in desire, that all the poems are true.  Every line.  Every word.  

 

It doesn't make her feel any better.

 

The way her skin tingles every time she's near Serena - how her body involuntarily aches and the thoughts that spill, unbidden, into her head -  makes her feel even worse.

 

 

***

 

 

The buzzer is a caustic shriek that brings Bernie leaping out of her slumber on the couch.  The book she was reading topples from her lap and lands on the floor with a dull thud, her nerves are jangling on high alert.  She doesn't like loud noises; some days she startles easily.  Sleep hasn't ever been what she'd call restful since she came home.  Looking around wildly, the familiar comforts that she clings to come into view: the cup of tea, half-empty, on the table next to the couch; a picture of her children behind it, smiling up at her like all is forgiven and forgotten.  This is her home.  She's safe now.  But she's yet to tell herself enough times to believe it, enough for it to be convincing.

 

She breathes, trying to slow her racing pulse.  The buzzer grates again, rattling through the speaker in three, long gashes of sound.

 

Bernie strides across the living room, into the hallway and punches the button on the intercom.  She growls an unwelcoming greeting and hears a rustling from downstairs, tinny and hollow through the speaker.

 

"It's Serena.  Can I come up?"

 

Even through the faint crackle of the connection, Bernie can hear how clipped Serena's voice is; the economical way she rushes from one word to another when she's angry or hurt.  Fervently hoping she's neither, Bernie's finger hovers over the button that opens the door downstairs.  She doesn't know why she pauses, or why she doesn't say anything in response.

 

"Look," Serena's voice comes through the speaker again, "I know it's late but I wanted to - that is, I needed to - "

 

She makes a sound of frustration and Bernie can tell she's getting frazzled.  A tiny smile curves her mouth.  She quite likes Serena that way, truth be told.

 

"Bernie.  Please.  Will you let me in?  I just want to - "

 

Bernie pushes the button and the intercom shuts off automatically.  Her heart is pounding in her chest again and she presses her palm against it, wondering at how susceptible she is to this.  To _her_.  The sound of Serena's heels click rapidly in the stairwell, drawing closer until they stop outside.  Pulling open the door, Bernie stares at Serena - takes in her wild eyes and her short, shallow breaths.  She's on the verge of saying something when Serena shoves at her, pushing her back inside the flat, the heavy front door banging shut behind them.

 

Her back hits the wall of the narrow hallway and Bernie's breath is pushed out of her with a little _oof_.  Serena's eyes look black in the shadows as she shrugs her bag from her shoulder and moves forwards.

 

"I missed you," she breathes, and her hands are on Bernie's neck, her fingers curling around it: hard and hasty.  "I see you every day and I still - I still - I just - "

 

When she kisses Bernie, it's with enough force and determination to have them bumping back against the wall again.  Bernie feels the cool surface through her vest top, hard against her shoulder blades.  But Serena's mouth is soft and warm and she's suddenly glad of the wall behind her as she melts into the body against her own, knees trembling traitorously.

 

The lips moving on her own drag a wet line along her jaw, hovering just beneath her ear.  Serena nestles into her and breathes: a warm flood across Bernie's skin that comes out in a prolonged, gratified sigh.

 

"I feel like a teenager," Serena murmurs.  Her hand moves into Bernie's hair, a thumb strokes over Bernie's cheek.  "Not - not that I ever felt like this when I _was_ a teenager," she laughs softly.  She nuzzles Bernie's neck, breathes her in, breathes adoration out.

 

"And it's late and I know you're probably tired - when are we not these days?" Serena continues, her voice a constant hum against the slope of Bernie's shoulder.  "But I can't stop thinking about you - this - us, I mean.  I'm trying not to overanalyse but I haven't felt this way since...well...I don't think I've ever felt this way and - "

 

"Serena," Bernie says in a low, husked voice.

 

"Yes?"

 

Bernie purposefully slides Serena's coat from her shoulders and pulls her close again.  "Less talking, more kissing."

 

Serena's sigh is almost pathetically grateful as she kisses Bernie again, as they enfold the other in their arms and cling together.  And maybe it's not poetry, Bernie thinks to herself.  

 

It's better.

 

 

 

***

 

 

Bernie's back arches and she strains half-heartedly against the weight pressing her hands back into the pillow.  All her life, she's hated being held down but the second Serena rose up over her and grasped at her wrists, Bernie surrendered willingly.  She laughs and rolls her eyes at Serena's smug expression, bathing her in light and joy and - Bernie tries not to dwell on it too much - hope.  It's a heady feeling; it makes her bold.

 

"You're surprisingly strong," she teases, "for a nice girl from the Home Counties."

 

Serena growls in mock reprove.  "How dare you call me a nice girl."

 

She leans down, her naked body sliding against Bernie's.  Thighs, hips, stomach, breasts pushing together and Serena's mouth descending onto Bernie's like it belongs there.  Her hands clench around Bernie's wrists and she begins to chuckle as Bernie squirms beneath her and groans.

 

"I take it back," Bernie bucks with her hips and relishes the harsh sigh that rushes over Serena's parted lips.  "You're not nice at all."  

She pushes one of her thighs between Serena's, feels her grind down on it.  Bernie moves again with intent and Serena moans deep in her throat, eyes fluttering shut.  Her breath is ragged as she rocks back and forth and when she opens her eyes, they're dark, liquid with unabashed want.

 

"What have you done to me?" she gasps, eyes wide in genuine bewilderment at being so consumed by someone so unexpectedly.  So completely.

 

Bernie grunts and tenses her thigh if only to see how Serena bites at her lower lip and bends a little over her.  Sex always felt like a means to an end - expectations and consequences always at the back of her mind.  But this...Serena...this _is_ the end.  Bernie's as certain about it now as she was back in Kiev, lonely and empty and barely able to draw breath over the ache in her chest.  This is the end of _that_.  The end of everything she's always wrapped around herself as armour.  The end of hiding and covering all her scars with someone who was invulnerable but never really her.

 

She's spent a lot of time wishing things could never end but they inevitably did in storms of hard, ugly words and tears she refused to cry.

 

Serena makes Bernie want to throw off everything that's held her back, made her tongue-tied, made her weak.  She makes her want to seek out a proper ending; one she's chosen.  One they both have.

 

"Taken by surprise," Bernie says, knowing she's talking about herself as much as Serena.  She sees Serena's face soften, the constraints on her wrists relax.

 

One of Serena's hands drifts down Bernie's arm and her fingers brush through messy blonde hair.  "It's a very nice surprise," she whispers with such tenderness that Bernie's eyes prickle.

 

This time, when they kiss, it's slow and languid.  It ripples sensation into them, reaching outwards to make their skin hot where their bodies touch.  Serena stretches Bernie's arms above her head, holds them down with a feather-light touch this time but it's enough to make Bernie moan and twist and crook her leg upwards.  Serena bears down on it and feels the contact flood through her.  It was never like this with men - and the comparison seems empty because there _is_ no comparison with this.  It's new.  And yet, it isn't.

 

Her fingers roll over Bernie's collarbone; her lips follow the smooth curve of Bernie's breast.  It's a different kind of intimacy: soft and sensual until the sharp edge of desire cuts through Serena's body like a scalpel.  She didn't know she could want this way - this keenly or this much.  It makes her falter, gasping a little as she rears back.  Her forefinger traces the line of Bernie's scar, following it down the centre of her chest before Serena kisses it with reverence. 

 

She whispers something that Bernie can't quite hear and rises up.  She leans more firmly onto Bernie's hands, holding them in place and shifts slightly, the heel of her hand bumping onto Bernie's stomach as it moves lower.  Bernie lifts her hips, pressing her thigh against Serena; she can feel wetness on her skin and her own body shudders in response.  Serena lets out a harsh breath, her fingers sliding easily between Bernie's legs and they both moan at the heat, the silken wetness, the contact that has Bernie pushing against Serena's grip, muscles in her arms clenching into tight bunches.  She could break her restraints if she really wanted to but there's something appealing about being held down by Serena, about being kept in her place by Serena's will and want.

 

Serena presses down hard, gripping Bernie's thigh between her own and moving on it; her fingers keep the same rhythm: tight, little circles that make Bernie's eyes fly open and her head thud back against the pillow.  There's a lyrical synchronicity to them now, a symphony of unsaid words that resound in the way their gazes meet, hold.  Serena can't look away - doesn't want to.  The rising tension in her body, the shivering, taut feeling in her blood is familiar.  But the sight of it on Bernie's face and the body undulating beneath her own...it's a newness Serena didn't even know she wanted.

 

Now, she craves it.  

 

Her mouth opens in a gasp of pleasure and Serena hears it echoed from Bernie's mouth.  They're breathing together, keeping time in an ever-increasing rhythm.  Bernie pushes frantically against Serena's fingers, thrusts hard and fast with her thigh and they climb towards a dizzy peak.  Serena's voice stutters out in a litany of nonsense; the cry that follows it breaking, as she does.  Beneath her, Bernie shudders, calls out in a thick, choked voice and everything is sensation, motion.  Emotion.

 

And, suddenly, Serena knows what this is and what she feels.  Nothing else seems to matter as she sinks into a familiarity that's as welcome as the thudding of Bernie's heartbeat against her ear.

 

 

 

***

 

 

There's a cluster of freckles just beneath Serena's right shoulder blade like a constellation; Bernie follows the shape with a fingertip before leaning over and kissing it gently.  Serena hums in pleasure, turning her head where it's resting on her hands and watching Bernie draw back, leaning up onto one elbow.

 

"Are you going to stay?" Bernie asks softly, in that tentative way she has when she expects rejection.

 

"Do you want me to?"

 

Bernie smiles.  "Always."

 

She scoots down a little, reaching out an arm and smoothing her hand up and down Serena's back.  She likes the feel of it beneath her palm; she takes comfort from the delicate strength in the contours of Serena's body.  It's beautiful.  Bernie wants to touch her all the time.

 

"You know, if you wanted to keep something here I could find you a space in my drawer."  Bernie's hand sweeps down into the small of Serena's back and lies there, still, for a second.  "Maybe something from your alarmingly large collection of nighties."

 

"Thank you very much for making me sound so matronly," Serena huffs.  "I'll have you know they're luxury sleepwear.  And very expensive.  Just when did you go rummaging through my closet?"

 

She hears the words after they've fallen from her mouth and squints up at Bernie, a self-conscious smirk across her mouth.  Bernie chuckles and raises her eyebrows conspiratorially.  

 

"In the army we call that intelligence gathering," she nods.

 

"And in my neck of the woods we call that snooping," Serena counters.  Bernie's fingers walk up the length of her back and slide over the nape of her neck.  Serena almost purrs in response and looks up at Bernie with heavy-lidded eyes.  "Would you prefer I throw on a vest top and pajama bottoms instead, like you?"

 

"Not at all," Bernie tells her.  "In fact, I'm rather fond of your satin sleepwear," her voice comes down heavily on the word and Serena glowers good-naturedly at her.  "Particularly the red one."

 

It feels nice, to be noticed.  But the look in Bernie's eyes, so openly appreciative, puts a flush across the top of Serena's cheeks.  She's desired, wanted in all the different ways, the same ways, the only ways that really matter.  She preens under Bernie's caress, losing herself in the sensation of those long, skillful fingers against her skin.  She watches them in surgery, sometimes, unable to keep from staring at how dexterous, how capable they are.

 

She wonders - has wondered, constantly - whether, should she put her heart into Bernie's hands, if it would be safe there.  Lying here together, the thought of doing so seems as practical and simple as taking Bernie up on her offer to put nightclothes into a drawer.  

 

Serena shivers involuntarily and Bernie's hand slides from her back.  She pulls the covers up over them; Serena rolls over and regards Bernie with a steady gaze.  She doesn't take risks in surgery; she's not like Bernie, who improvises and always has an alternative plan, however messy and arduous it is.  But an alternative plan would be living the way she did when Bernie was in the Ukraine, constantly stumbling over the hole she left and trying to fill it with anger so falling would hurt less.

 

That's not a plan, Serena tells herself.  It's a sophisticated way of self-harm, and she desperately doesn't want to go back to dark days and nights that linger around the edges of her life in sadness and shadow.

 

"What's wrong?" Bernie asks and Serena starts out of her reverie, blinking up at her.

 

"This is real, isn't it?" she asks, reaching out beneath the covers and curling her fingers over Bernie's hip.  Immediately, she demurs, shameful and embarrassed.  "I mean - I'm not embellishing what it is, am I, like some schoolgirlish flight of fancy or something?"

 

Her dismissive laugh gets stuck in her throat as Bernie inches closer to her so they're almost touching.  Serena can feel the heat of her body and gravitates towards it.

 

"It's real," Bernie says firmly.  She bends her head and kisses Serena, lips lingering indulgently for a second or two.  "And I think we're both old enough and wise enough to know it."

 

"Old and wise?" Serena splutters.  "You speak for yourself.  I've never felt more inexperienced and foolish in my life."

 

"Serena, if this is confusing for you - "

 

"It's not!" Serena rises up onto one elbow, eyes on a level with Bernie's.  "I'm not confused about how I feel, if that's what you mean."

 

"I - I don't.  Neither am I," Bernie states; it feels like a confession.  A promise.

 

"But the rest of it - working together and sneaking around and grown up, disapproving children and clothes at one another's house..."

 

"I'm suggesting a drawer, not marriage," Bernie intones quietly.  Serena's face takes on a fearful look and Bernie sighs, her hand finding Serena's beneath the covers and grasping it.

 

"I'm here now.  I'm not leaving.  So we can do things as slowly or as fast as you want."

 

"And - and what about you?" Serena asks suddenly.  She leans close, feels the air between them crackle, suspended.  "What do you want?"

 

Bernie looks at her like she really _is_ inexperienced and foolish; it makes a blush rise on Serena's throat, makes her breath shaky as Bernie's mouth works silently around words.  She thinks of all the things she could say - all the words written by someone else that she could repeat and hope to convince Serena that she's sincere.  They gaze at one another and Bernie finds her voice.  And, despite her misgivings, it's entirely her own.

 

"I just want to be with you, Serena."

 

Serena's shoulders sag in relief and she reaches for Bernie, pulling her close and kissing her hard, decisively.  There's nothing remotely confusing about the way they cling to each other or how important and satisfying it is.  Serena laughs into Bernie's neck, feels strong arms around her; this newness is strong and safe in a way she's never really understood before.

 

"And do you want me to keep a nightie here in the future?"

 

Bernie laughs, rocking Serena against her body.  "As long as it's the red one, yes."

 

Serena fits against her so perfectly that it feels like they're one another's missing piece.  Bernie closes her eyes and listens to the sound of Serena's breathing become slow and sleepy, lulling her towards rest, towards tomorrow.  Life isn't poetry, Bernie thinks to herself as she feels the rise and fall of Serena's chest on her skin.  Life isn't contained in the grandiose or the conceits of clever minds; it's here, it's this, it's the two of them.  It's peace, Bernie tells herself as she drifts, tangling her legs with Serena's.

 

It's real.

 

 

***

 


End file.
